Please Leave a Message
by blinkblink
Summary: After the Apocalypse, Dean tries to move on with his life. Four times Dean calls Castiel, and one time he doesn't have to. AU for S.6. Background Lisa/Dean.


Disclaimer: Don't own SPN or the characters.

Notes: AU for season 6.

_One_

Lisa wants him to downplay his training.

She doesn't say it. She never, ever says it, and he loves her for that. She doesn't tell him not to talk about it, doesn't tell him to draw a line in the sand, doesn't tell him to try to move on. His weirdness saved her son, after all.

He can see it in her eyes all the same, see it in the way she glances at the bag of rock salt stashed in every room of the house in an unobtrusive but very convenient location, see it in the way she ignores the runes he carves into the door and window frames, see it in the way she never once looks into the heavily locked trunk he installs in the basement. She makes no objections to him teaching both her and Ben simple self-defence and banes and exorcism; she recognizes the reality of the world they live in. But she doesn't want it to affect their lives more than it has to, and he understands that. Understands that his parents each veered to very separate ends of the scale when it came to teaching their family about dealing with the supernatural, and that neither of them were right.

They don't live in a house where hunting doesn't exist, they live in one where it's downplayed. Where Ben will grow up knowing to check his potential girlfriends with Christi and silver and holy water but not how to chop their heads off. Where Uncle Bobby will come for a couple of beers and chat about old friends but not the monsters they killed the week before.

But because Dean knows exactly how hard the world will try to screw over anyone with Winchester tacked on to his name, he has to make damn sure of his facts before he locks away his shotgun and holy water for good.

* * *

"Lisa?"

He's been here two weeks. The ragged hole in his chest isn't any better, but he knows now that he can make it. Knows he'll be able to keep his promise. Thinks maybe that one day, he won't wake up with the past tasting of ashes in his mouth.

She looks up from the dishes she's cleaning, hands red from the hot water. Ben's upstairs somewhere, playing with his Gameboy or whatever the kids are frying their eyes with these days.

"About Ben…"

She puts the plate in the drying rack and turns, wiping her hands on a towel. Dean's still not used to the sheer domesticity of it. Can't remember ever seeing anyone not on TV using a drying rack.

"When I was here the last time, you said… you said he wasn't mine." Dean puts his hands out of sight on his legs, fingers digging lightly into the denim, and keeps his expression light. "And I get that. I get it completely. I mean, what, a guy like me drops in out of nowhere for the first time in eight years and asks whether he's got commitments to keep, of course you're gonna say no." He bites back _Who would want me around_ with some effort.

"Dean, I –"

"Look, it's cool either way. Really. He's an awesome kid. Smart, brave, loyal, scarily like me…" Dean shakes his head. "I absolutely don't care. I mean, okay, I do, but it wouldn't make any difference. It's just, my family kind of has a target on our backs and if he is mine, I need to make sure that shit's not gonna fall on him. I swear, it won't matter. I just… I just need to know." No way in hell are four generations of his family going to be screwed up by Fate and Destiny and all that shit.

Lisa's watching him with heavy eyes, the same eyes she watched him with when he told her his brother was gone and that if he wasn't alone in the whole wide world it damn well felt like it.

"Dean, I…" she knots her hands in the towel. "I told you before that I had him tested. That was true. But I had him tested against the other guy I knew at the time. The results came back negative. I don't know for sure, but I wasn't with anyone else at the time, so." She smiles weakly, hands knotted in the towel. "Yeah. Odds are he's yours, Dean Winchester."

Dean sits back heavily in the chair. He's been expecting it, been scripting the conversation in his head for days, and it still…

He has a son. He, Dean Winchester, has a son. The idea rattles around in his skull like a marble in a jar. He doesn't know what to do with it, has absolutely no context for this and right now isn't likely to be able to find any.

But despite that, he still knows he needs to make damn sure no one's screwing around upstairs.

* * *

He uses the house phone, after reassuring Lisa that no, it really doesn't matter, and yes, he's thrilled. He's not, can't feel anything more than a kind of dull prickling in his chest beside the gaping void, but he thinks he probably will be someday.

The phone, predictably, rings four times and then rolls over to voice mail. The standard voice announces: "You have reached the voice mail of," followed by a perplexed, "I don't understand, why, why do you want me to say my name?"

Dean knows now why Sam wasn't so sure about leaving a message for Cas. There's a sharp stab of pain at the memory, and then he clears his voice and leaves a message: "Cas, it's me. I'm at Lisa's house. I, uh, don't know if you're checking this anymore what with the promotion and all, but I kind of need to talk to you."

He hangs up with the depressing knowledge that Castiel probably didn't take his cell with him back to Heaven and, if he did, almost certainly doesn't get reception there.

* * *

Two days later, Dean is sitting in the backyard when Lisa comes out the back door looking scared.

He spends a lot of time in the yard these days. Partially it's just the novelty of having one, but mostly it's the fact that he feels like a stranger in the house. It's not his, full of furniture and pictures and belongings that he doesn't recognize and that don't mean anything to him. And, right now, it's a reminder of the home he doesn't and will never have again. The home that wasn't a place but a person.

He's on his feet as soon as he sees her, reaching for the knife that she doesn't know he carries.

"There's someone at the door for you. A man in a rain coat and a dirty suit. He says his name is Castiel," she says, and he can read her fears in her eyes: _Your past has caught up with you already_?

Dean relaxes. "It's okay. He's a friend." He hasn't told her about Cas. Hasn't told her anything about the Apocalypse. She doesn't need to know just how close humanity came to being flushed down the drain. She thinks everything that was tearing him apart was all about Sam, and that's close enough to the truth that he doesn't feel too badly for omitting a few details.

They cut back through the house, Dean stopping to pick up Ben from the living room where he's reading a book – Lisa insists on only 2 hours of video games a day – and ushers him along into the front hall.

Cas is waiting on the stoop when he comes out, staring up at the underside of the roof. Dean glances up at it and sees nothing of interest, but then who knows what Cas is actually looking at – could be the past, or distant stars, or some ants. Beside him, Ben looks up at the angel uncertainly.

"Hey Cas," Dean says, and the angel looks back at him with that faraway look he had lost near the end. When he was more human than angel, and beginning to understand what that meant.

"Dean."

"This is Ben. Ben, this is Castiel," he introduces, and elbows the kid in the side. Prompted, he sticks out his hand. Cas, to his credit, hardly blinks before providing his own and shaking. It's not the slow, careful shake he gave Sam, but the perfunctory carrying out of a habit he sees no point whatsoever to.

"Hello," says Castiel; Ben doesn't say anything.

"And this is Lisa," he adds awkwardly, feeling her standing behind him.

"Hi," she says, warily, and he knows he's going to have some explaining to do later. Fortunately pretty much anything involving too much drugs or alcohol will explain the angel away.

"I already introduced myself," replies Cas blandly, speaking to Dean rather than Lisa. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Uh, yeah. Why don't you come around back with me?" He gestures around the side of the house, and Castiel heads in that direction. "We probably won't be long," he adds to Lisa and Ben, both staring after the angel, and then follows.

Cas stops in the middle of the back yard, staring around the small portion of carefully-chosen nature with the same equanimity he stared across battlefields with. Dean knows the angel knew the difference once, but isn't so sure he still remembers.

"What did you want to talk about?" asks Cas, staring at the house.

"Uh, it's about Ben," says Dean, and then glances back to check that the kid isn't in hearing range. "Lisa says he's mine. My son, I mean," he clarifies.

"Yes," says Cas flatly.

"Is that a yes he is, or a yes go on?"

"Both."

"Wow, you haven't become much of a talker since taking the new job, huh?" Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Look, if the kid's mine, that means he's got my blood. And my blood's got a downright shitty credit history. Angels and demons duking it out to screw over three damn generations, right?"

"Fate –" begins Castiel, but Dean cuts him off. Drops the explanation and shifts straight into rage.

"Don't you dare fucking 'fate' me. You were there, you saw what that got me, what that got us. My grandparents, my parents, my _brother_, dead. It stops here. It damn well stops here, Cas." He turns to point at the house, nearly shaking. "None of that crap is going to follow that kid, you hear me? No curses, no gifts, no fate. You look at him, and you tell me that he'll lead a normal life." It's not a question, or a request. It's an order.

"I can't interfere –"

Dean steps in close, quick as a shot. "Don't give me that. You're head honcho upstairs, you have the _entire might of Heave_n behind you. Five deaths and the _world saved_ should earn one kid the promise of not being a piece in a goddamn chess game."

"Dean," says Cas softly, turning to look at him with hard eyes, and Dean swallows. "I can't interfere," he repeats slowly, tilting his head and giving him that look. That _Let me tell you why I can't help,_ look. Dean shuts up and listens. "But, I can stop anyone else from interfering."

"Anyone?" asks Dean, gruffly, watching him closely.

"Anyone," agrees the angel. "That, I can promise."

Dean's sick of promises. Worse than sick. Hates them, loathes them, never wants to think about them again. But this one, he's willing to accept. He glances at the house again, and knows that somewhere in there that kid will have a life completely unmarred by angels and demons and all the crap that follows in their wake. He turns back to Cas. "Thanks –"

The angel is, of course, already gone.

_Two_

Dean's got a flute of champagne in his hand, and is sitting uncomfortably in his suit. It's been a long time since he last wore one, and these days he thinks of the past infrequently enough that it sits badly in his stomach. But across the patio his son is dancing with his new daughter-in-law, in a crowd of their laughing friends. It's hard to be depressed on a day like this.

He called Cas to invite him to the wedding, feeling like a complete idiot for it. He hasn't seen the angel in fifteen years, and even back then they were only friends more than allies for a few months. And, apart from the fact that he hates 99.9% of the silver-winged bastards, one of the things he knows about angels is that they probably have better things to do with their time than turn up to weddings.

Cas' voice mail was there, though, active after all these years even when his carrier had long since gone under. Hearing his gruff, puzzled voice was… hard. Had come to represent in Dean's mind one of the worst two years of his life.

Of course, the angel doesn't show up. He hadn't expected otherwise; the idea of Cas sitting in the pews in his dirty coat, watching in confusion while people threw rice and flowers was hilarious but more pertinently ridiculous. Angels don't go in for ridiculous.

Bobby's gone home already, not up to much these days. He has other friends, has pals he's known for years now, but there's always that wall. They don't know. Bobby's the last one, and even he'll be gone all too soon.

Behind him, a light breeze blows in off the water. Flowers shiver and banners ripple, women laughing as their dresses blow around their legs.

"Hello, Dean," says a low voice from behind him. Dean nearly spills his champagne as he swivels in his chair.

Cas… looks the same as always. Exactly the same, suit, coat, loose tie and all. Except for his youth – or rather, Dean's age. "Hi Cas," he says, gruffly, throat unreasonably tight. He turns back to look over at the dancers. "Want some champagne?"

"No." A slight pause. "The wedding… seems nice," he says, stiffly. Dean smiles wanly.

"Still no small talk, huh?"

"It would appear not."

"How're things upstairs?"

"Busy. Always busy. Faith, once lost, is difficult to regain. There are many who follow Uriel's beliefs, even now. Finding and judging them is… hard."

Over on the dance floor, the song comes to the end and the pairs break up. Ben spots him, and comes over with Melanie at his side.

"Hey Dad. You're not dancing?"

"You know me. None of that soppy stuff. 'Sides, the music's terrible." He's aware, even as he's talking, that they're both looking at Castiel with something between confusion and uncertainty. "You remember Cas, Ben?"

Ben's face wrinkles. "Uh, I don't think so…"

"You met him once when you were a kid. He's an old friend. Cas, this is Melanie, Ben's wife. Melanie, Castiel."

She holds out her hand, and the angel shakes it. "Nice to meet you," he intones, possibly aware that this is a formal occasion. Dean's forgotten just how good the angel is at projecting _this is a ridiculous custom and I have no idea why I am humouring you_ into a few words. Melanie smiles, glowing with the joy of the day.

"Would you care to dance, Castiel?" And apparently blinded by it as well.

Dean watches the brief flash of stiff shock pass over the angel's face for a moment before coming to his rescue. "Nah, he's not much of a dancer either. You kids let us two old fogies have a chat and get back out there."

"C'mon, Dad, that's not fair. Castiel doesn't look a day over 35."

"In fact, I am –" begins Castiel, before Dean shifts and stands on his foot. It's like standing on a brick, but the angel pauses all the same.

"He moisturizes. 24/7," says Dean with a bright plastic smile, and waves at them. They give him a look, but return to Lisa and their friends. "Hint, Cas? Don't go telling the normal people your age. It freaks them out."

"So do most things, I've noticed."

"Probably just most things associated with you." Dean sighs, smile fading. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Well, like the right idea at least.

He's forgotten the bright vivid pain of the past. Has grown used to all the reminders he carries with him, to the tattoo and the box in the basement and the runes on the doorframe. They've become a faded picture of what he thought until now he was still remembering with complete accuracy. Staring at Cas, he know he isn't. Can see exactly how faded his memories were because he's suddenly drowning in the past. In those last few days when everything fell apart and even Cas and Bobby lost hope and Sam –

Dean looks away.

"You aren't happy I came," says Castiel quietly from behind him. Dean shakes his head, rubs at the bridge of his nose.

"Nah, of course not. I mean, I invited you. Wanted you to see the kids, know they were getting on okay. I mean, I guess you could've just glanced in on them whenever, but…" Dean stops, aware that he's gabbling, and that his words sound false even to himself. He sighs, and turns to look at Cas, staring down at him with those soulful eyes.

"I wanted to miss you," he tells him. "Wanted to be happy to see you. You've done a hell of a lot for me, Cas, whatever I felt at the time. And hell, it's not like I've got a lot of old buddies around who I can call up to yak with about old times, if I'd wanted to."

Cas tilts his head to the side, reading him. "But when you see me, all you think of is your brother."

Dean swallows thickly. "I shouldn't. I don't blame you, Cas. I don't, I know that. I just… Everything that happened then, it all got sucked up in that, tainted, ruined by it. Including you. And until right now… I'd forgotten. Forgotten just how much it hurt – still hurts. I used to think I never would." He downs the remained of the champagne in one gulp, and has to fight to keep from throwing away the glass.

"I'm not offended, Dean. Besides, I don't have the time or interest to … 'yak about old times.'"

"Thanks." Dean puts the glass down, avoiding temptation. After a minute, he nods out at the dance floor. "What about them?"

"What about them?" asks Cas, puzzled.

Dean sighs. "They look good, don't they? Ben's a good kid, despite having lived with me for fifteen years."

"You never gave yourself enough credit, Dean."

The number of people still around to tell him that are exactly two, and that burns. Burns like acid running straight though his veins. "Yeah, well," he mutters, shifting. "Thanks for coming, Cas," he adds, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

There's no answer; behind him, the patio is empty.

_Three_

When the twins grow up old enough to be scared of the dark, to worry about the monsters under the bed and in the closet, Dean doesn't give them a knife. Doesn't tell them that there are monsters under beds and in closets. Doesn't tell them that, if any ever come anywhere near their house, he will personally end their asses (although he would).

He tells them that they've got an angel watching over them, an archangel all to their own that no one else knows about. Remembers then something he had forgotten for years and years.

His own mother telling him the same thing.

That night, he calls Cas' voice mail. It's still there, although the number patterns have changed completely. He doesn't leave a message. Just listens. For the first time in twenty-five years, thinking of the angel doesn't hurt.

_Four_

Lisa wants him to stay in the hospital, but Dean knows there's no point. No one in their family had a peaceful death, but he's damn well going to start a tradition.

The reaper will be here soon. He can feel it, feel the way each breath catches at his heart and makes it quiver. He's died often enough to know the signs. The kids are here, and the twins, trying to look cheerful and not quite managing. Lisa won't leave his bedside, thin hands clasped tight in the bedclothes.

It's a good house, this one. They moved when Ben went to college, bought a new house a few miles from the coast – he'd never spent much time near the sea before. This house is really theirs, filled with Ben's school pictures and sports trophies, with the smiling faces of Melanie and the twins, with knickknacks collected on trips and made for them by their grandchildren's clumsy hands. He feels at home here, feels part of a family. Feels loved. It's only in the last few years that he's known, really known, that this was what Sam wanted for him all along. It makes him love his brother all the more.

His heart skips a beat, vision blurring for a moment while a faint pain shoots through his chest.

He never really left it behind, but his past has faded all the same. Bobby passed years ago, and after him there were so many fewer reasons to remember. He's made sure the kids handed the knowledge along, made sure everyone he cares for knows about salt and iron and holy water. Knows Melanie's siblings never really believed, until they saw an old chest x-ray of his. That's not important; what is important is that they will be safe. All of them. Generations of Winchesters to come will have what Mom wanted for him and Sam. Normal lives, and the ability to keep them that way.

His heart lurches again, hands twitching involuntarily.

Here, at the end of it all, he isn't Dean Winchester. He's a husband, and a father, and a grandpa. No one in this house knows about Lucifer, or the Apocalypse, or what was given to make this world safe. That's the way he wants it, is the way Sam would have wanted it, and Ellen and Jo and Bobby and Mom and Dad, and so many others. But it still hurts. Just a little. To be here at the end, and be the last of them. To know that he's it, and when he's gone no one will remember them and what they gave.

But… that's not quite right.

"Lisa?"

She straightens, wiping at her eyes and smiling falsely. "I'm right here, honey."

"Get… the phone." It's hard to find the breath to speak these days, even with the oxygen and the pills. She looks uncertain for a moment, but then reaches over and picks up the headset. Slips it onto his ear, and picks up the remote. He gives her the number, watches her dial the old-fashioned digits even as her face contracts in sorrow. Knows she thinks he's fading, living in the past already.

The phone rings. One, two, three, four. A click, and then a calm female voice says, "You have reached the voice mail of…" There's a pause, and then Castiel's voice, gruff and irritated and puzzled, "I don't understand, why, why do you want me to say my name?"

Dean closes his eyes, and can feel the moisture there. He misses him. Misses him, and Sam, and Bobby, and Ellen and Jo, and everyone. Really and truly. There's no anger left, none of the rage that he felt for so many years. He just misses them. So much.

Dean takes a deep breath. "Cas? I'm at home." It's all he can manage. The call clicks, and drops.

Lisa takes the phone off his ear and replaces it on the table with a click. "Who was that to?"

"An old friend. He may drop by."

"Dean, I'm not sure…" She breaks off, and purses her lips to erase the pain there.

There's a quiet flapping, like curtains in a wind. Lisa gasps, and sits back in her chair. "Who – who are you? How did you get in here?"

"Lisa, it's alright."

Castiel's standing at the foot of the bed. He looks so young, and Dean stares at him for a minute in surprise. He remembers the coat and the suit, and the hair and the stubble, but the subtler features he'd forgotten. The line of his jaw, and his cheekbones. His staring eyes, trying to take in every single detail and make sense of them. The way he stoops slightly, the way he tilts his head forward to stare up from under his brows, the way he holds his hands as if he's about to go into a boxing match.

"Hello, Dean," he says, quietly.

"Hey, Cas. Thanks… for coming."

"I had a snap."

Dean frowns momentarily, and then, "A break, Cas. You had… a break."

"Yes. How are you?"

"I'm dying."

Beside him, Lisa gasps quietly, and he regrets it. The angel, of course, is not surprised.

"Yes," he agrees.

"People usually say… 'I'm sorry,'… Cas."

The angel frowns. "Should I be? Against all odds you have lived a long life. You've had the freedom you desired. You've had what your brother wanted for you. Should I not be happy?"

Dean laughs, a creaking gasping laugh that hurts. Lisa scrambles for his meds, but Cas steps closer. Lays two cool fingers against his forehead. The pain recedes, and his breathing eases. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I wanted to say… goodbye. Seems like… I didn't get… too many chances." And those that he'd had… "No one else left," he mutters.

Castiel tilts his head, watching with careful eyes.

"I did miss you… you know."

"I know."

"Will you watch… the kids? Just… in case … fate?"

Cas nods once. "I will watch."

"Thanks, Cas." He feels tired. Breathing is easier now, but his vision is blurring all the same.

"Call the children, if you wish to," says Castiel quietly to Lisa. And then, to Dean's shock, disappears in the blink of an eye.

"Guess I never knew… just how bad… you were at goodbyes."

_Five_

Dean closes his eyes. There's a cold, cold touch against his forehead. Colder than ice, colder than frozen metal. A hand takes his arm, and pulls him up.

Dean opens his eyes. Cas is standing there, looking the same as always. Dean's eyebrows furrow. "Cas?"

There's something wrong with his voice. It's – he glances down at his hands. No wrinkles. Takes a quick step, and finds no hint of rheumatism. He looks around, and sees Lisa and the kids gathered around the bed, crying. And himself, still lying in it.

"I'm –"

"Dead," confirms the angel.

"And you're –"

"Still here. I asked a favour of the reaper. It was willing to oblige; you don't have a good record with them."

"This is creepy," he says, staring at his corpse.

"Many things involving you are," replies the angel, with a smile. Dean glances back at him.

"I can't believe you're still here."

"We are traditionally thought to have more to do with the dead than the living, Dean. I was surprised you seemed so insistent on saying goodbye."

"Then?"

Castiel tilts his head to the side, and blinks slowly. "This isn't goodbye, Dean. There are no goodbyes. You ensured that." He holds out a hand.

Dean looks back to the bed, to his family – the family he never believed he could have, when he last looked like this. "I'll see them again?"

"There are no guarantees. But," Castiel's voice softens from gruff to nearly conspiratorial, "I believe it's likely."

Dean nods, still watching them. "Cas?"

"Yes?"

His voice catches in his throat, and he knows he won't be able to ask what he wanted, for just a little more time to say goodbye. He knows better than anyone where that leads.

So he forces a smile, and looks to Cas: the angel's watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Did you miss me?" he asks instead with a crooked smile to cover up the tears in his eyes, voice nearly normal.

"Most of me," says the angel, looking at him sideways, "has no idea how it is you miss people you are certain to see again."

"And the rest of you?"

Cas sighs, and for just an instant Dean doesn't see the detached angel but the man who stumbled into their motel room, drunk on despair and an entire liquor store. "Part of me may be willing to concede I was looking forward to seeing you again."

Dean's smile evens out, immediate sorrow dulling. "Vulture."

"I don't understand."

"Never mind, Cas." Dean reaches out, and takes the angel's hand. Turns to take one last look at his second family, paid for by the sacrifices of the first. He won't forget either of them. But of course, this isn't the end. No one's asking him to.

He looks Castiel in the eye, brown to blue, and sees the question there. Dean nods. "Let's go."

They do.


End file.
